WE, THEN: A FABLE
When the world did end, it was a wet end; the oceans clawed into the dirt, and they pulled up their heavy bodies, and they sanitized the lands.
Moist and rolled, the last of us was a snail who came from a hole in a protruding rock, her algae source within the fresh liquid long enfeebled.
To the snail, the end was in hyperspeed – the tearing glassy blue; giants. Before she turned her slow head, mankind was already drinking into thirst, then eating wind and burrs. By now, she imagined their scarecrow brothers (once tied limp to crude crosses in the open) must billow and dance – wave from their boneless elbows – shouting the old caw song, “We-THEN! We-THEN!” to ward schools of prawn from the inherited remnants of their rotted, subaquatic corn rows.
The world was heavy-quiet. The snail whispered, now – turned up her mouth in a motion to the sun.
“We, then?” she said. She shifted her neck and waited.
The din kept itself, though, so moving forward, the snail came to be in the saline tides.
Unbeknownst, from just beneath those waters, a collective of sea algae watched their god push and roll, never flinching as she disintegrated into the blue-black. Her pinwheel shell teetered, then hovered for a moment, and crashed in slowest, near-held motion off the embanked ledge. Falling, a bubble pocket shot for the light as the waters took her place.
She was buried into the sands, deep and on her side, where she would collect their brine, and their age, and their stories.
“We, then,” they replied.
About the Author
C.D. DyVanc lives in Columbia, Mo. He is an award-winning journalist, and currently works as a hotel night auditor. In his free time, he enjoys jumping out of airplanes, reading, and defending the movie Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. His works have appeared in Well-Versed, Medium Weight Forks, and the hybrid art exhibit Interpretations V. His chapbook, rhi(n.)oceros, is currently available through Greentower Press. You can find his horrible use of GIFs on Twitter (@CDDyVanc), if you want.